Fortuitous
by sydneysages
Summary: When given the opportunity, Sam Nicholls likes to people watch. What she doesn't expect to see, however, is a Dylan Keogh who looks far too familiar to how he looked all those years ago. Can she persuade him to let her help him - finding themselves along the way? /Oneshot, SamxDylan


This is set somewhere between the last episode and just after it

* * *

As she sits in the passenger seat of ambulance 3006, part of the Holby City Ambulance Trust, Sam Nicholls people watches. It isn't something she gets to do much anymore; they're normally rushing from here out to another call, and back in with yet another patient. There's almost no downtime anymore, due to the government's cuts, and when they do manage to squeeze in a break, why spend it in a hospital car park when there's a fully stocked fridge (and a basketball hoop) just two hundred metres down the road?

But today, by some strange stroke of luck, she's got ten minutes to just sit and watch. Iain's dealing with some paperwork issue – which, if she had any interest in progressing up the paramedic chain of command she should be listening to – and they don't have a patient. She isn't qualified to go out on calls by herself, and they've got plans to go to the local deli for lunch, so she isn't going to waste her break on this ten minute stretch of time.

So she watches. Patients, their families, medics, they all almost blend into one before Sam's eyes. She can pick out the occasional limp and makes a mental bet as to the patient's diagnosis, swearing to herself that she'll sneak into the E.D and check on these patients at some point. She sees tired doctors sneaking out for a cigarette or a cup of (probably too strong) coffee, but when she sees those, she turns away. Today isn't a day for wistfulness, for regrets and _what ifs_.

And then she sees him.

The only word to describe Dylan Keogh is _bleary-eyed_. Well, it certainly isn't, but it's the one that seems to fit the best today. The dishevelled appearance combined with the slightly lopsided gait tells her that he hasn't slept – or if he has, he hasn't slept properly. He's swinging his bag, which under normal circumstances would be an immediate no-no, and she swears that he looks directly at her without seeing her.

When he does, she can see the bags colouring his face, the almost dead-look in his eyes, and she gasps. She can't help herself; it's a rare thing to see Dylan Keogh look less than well put together, and she doubts that most of his colleagues will notice the difference in his appearance.

That's the perk (or the issue) with being his ex-wife. You notice things that others don't, especially when you still care for somebody.

Suddenly, Sam's grateful for this fortuitous opportunity for her to people-watch. She just hopes that it's nothing more than sleep deprivation that's keeping Dylan awake…

* * *

~x~

They drop a patient off later that morning, and Sam sneaks another look at Dylan. Closer up, he looks even worse than he did from the ambulance, and she's fairly certain that even a blind nurse would be able to tell that something's wrong with him. His clothes are wrinkled, as if he slept in them, and he seems to constantly need some water.

"Have you noticed anything off about Dylan recently?" Sam asks Iain as they wheel their gurney back to the ambulance. She's too focused on Dylan to think properly about the patients she people-watched earlier, even as one passes her with a discharge form.

Iain's brow furrows. "What do you mean?" He's cautious, and with good reason, Sam reflects. While they never really actively avoid discussing what happened in their wild army days, Dylan Keogh is usually a topic steered far clear from.

"Well, I was on the course last week, and annual leave the week before," Sam reminds him gently but firmly, trying to make her voice sound as though she doesn't really care about Dylan Keogh. "And he looks a bit…not well put together. Did he look like that last week?"

Scrunching his face up in a form of concentration, this would normally be when Sam makes a joke about Iain's monkey face. Today, however, her attention is focused on his lips, waiting for something, _anything_ , to come out about her ex-husband.

"Nah, I don't think so," Iain replies slowly. "I mean, he was a bit tired and crabby, but he's always crabby. Don't know how you put up with it."

"Hey," Sam says sharply, before deciding to leave the joke alone. "Did he look…more tired than he should? As an E.D consultant, I mean."

Iain stops the trolley and turns to look at Sam, his expression hard to read, even for Sam Nicholls. "I don't think so, Sam. He's probably just tired because he's stepping up now that Connie's on…well, you know. Medical leave." He shifts uncomfortably for a moment, before meeting Sam's gaze again. "If you're so worried about him, why don't you just ask him? I'm sure he'll tell you himself that there's nothing to worry about."

Sam's lips purse, and she turns back to face the exit without another word to Iain, all the while thinking in her mind, _that's what I'm afraid of._

* * *

~x~

His head hurts, his body aches, and his hands shake slightly. The usual signs of a hangover combined with withdrawal. Did the symptoms of alcoholism kick in this quickly last time? He doesn't think so; it was gradual, a process which happened over months and years of alcohol abuse throughout medical school and beyond.

Now, it's only been a few weeks, and he feels like he's never had a break from the stuff.

As he sits in Connie's oppressive office, the few personal effects she deigns appropriate to display in her office reminding him that this isn't his office or his job, Dylan leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. He needs to stop. He _wants_ to stop. It took years before, but he managed to find the willpower to stop the alcohol, stop the incessant drinking, stop the need to control everything and yet fail to control anything at all. He can do it again. Beneath everything, he doesn't _want_ to drink. It just seems like a suitable way to relieve his stresses.

And deep down, he knows that he doesn't need to do it. He didn't pick the bottle up again when Sam left him, or when he found out about her affair while they were married. He didn't pick it up during the three years he spent as far away from Holby as physically possible, or during the OCD crisis. Not when Brian came back into his life, or he was accused of misconduct by Seb Grayling. But, for some reason, he can't build himself back up again. He can't fight it.

He wants to, but he's too weak to do it alone.

Opening his eyes, he looks out of the slim glass pane in the door to the office, and notes two figures in green heading towards the door. Sam and Iain. Talk of the devil – or, rather, the fallen angel. No matter her sins and transgressions, he could never consider her as anything less than divine.

His eyes follow her, trying to trick his mind into thinking that this is ten years before, that they're still married and everything's perfect. That he can give up alcohol for her, and he can show her how much he loves (and needs) her before it's too late.

And then she's gone, and he's back in an office with a now overflowing pile of paperwork, continually bleeping telephone, and a secret bottle of schnapps in the bottom drawer of the far filing cabinet. Probably a leftover from Nick Jordan's days in here, or potentially Connie Beauchamp's therapeutic tipple of choice. But he knows it's there, and he's never wanted it so bad.

With a deep breath and great effort, Dylan turns his attention to the computer, and brings up google. He types: AA Holby, and a list of options immediately spring up.

He doesn't click on any, however, but leaves it open in the hope that he can find the motivation to RSVP to a meeting. Or whatever it is you do, nowadays.

* * *

~x~

"Want to go for a drink, Doctor Keogh?" Rash, one of the new doctors who'll probably be gone in a few weeks, asks him, and Dylan's immediately torn.

"No, er, it's fine thanks, lots of paperwork," he mumbles, his resolution failing with every word. Sam Nicholls isn't here; she won't know that he's drinking. Not that it matters if she does, of course. She isn't his wife, just as he is absolutely nothing to her.

"Really? Just one, it'll be a quick one?" Rash presses, and Dylan's resolve crumbles.

"Er, yeah, alright, just one then," he replies, gripping his briefcase tightly as he takes the fateful steps out towards the Hope & Anchor.

One turns into five, which turns into a pitstop at the local Tesco Express for another bottle of whisky, which finally becomes falling asleep at three am, whisky glass still in hand.

* * *

~x~

"He's worse today," Sam mutters to herself as she wheels the gurney back towards the ambulance waiting outside the Emergency Department. There's something in her stomach, something which tells her that she knows exactly what this is, but she ignores it. There's no way that he would have been reduced to going back to alcohol, would he?

After everything that happened between them, if there had been a time he was going to go back on the bottle, it would have been when she asked him for a divorce. Surely that would be when he would have fallen off the wagon.

"I, er, I'll just be five mins," Sam calls across to Iain, not waiting for a response as she darts back towards the workstation in the centre of the E.D.

It's almost an entirely new team nowadays, and she isn't sure who she can – who she should – speak to about Dylan. As far as he can tell, he keeps himself to himself now that Zoe's gone. The only person who might know anything would be Connie Beauchamp, and she's god knows where, and unlikely to acquiesce to any of Sam's requests after their disastrous meeting. There's nobody who could know anything. Probably, anyway.

"Er…Doctor Masum?" Sam calls to the only familiar face she knows at the workstation. Whilst he's unlikely to know anything about Dylan's state of mind, he might at least know where Dylan is. "Have you seen Doctor Keogh?"

A slightly embarrassed smile creeps onto the young doctor's face, and the feeling in Sam's stomach tightens. "He's probably at home, nursing a hangover, think he's due in at nine thirty," Rash replies, and Sam has to grip onto the counter top. No, no, no. She misheard. She had to have misheard. "I didn't expect him to be such a party animal; everyone says that he doesn't go to the pub, but last night he did!"

Biting her lip, Sam tries to stop herself swearing.

It doesn't work.

"Fuck," she murmurs, and closes her eyes. "Thanks, Rash. If you see him…don't tell him I've asked about him, okay?"

"Okay," Rash replies, his brow furrowing. "Um, why do you care? If you don't mind me asking…"

Sam grits her teeth, and lets go of the counter top, folding her arms. Her brain's in overdrive, thinking of all of the signs that she's missed and the team's missed, and _why isn't Zoe Hanna here_ , she'd know what to do and how to handle this.

Because, for all of her concern and interest and worry for Dylan Keogh, he doesn't care about her. He doesn't want her getting involved – and, in fairness, she can barely blame him. She tore his heart out, and stomped on the pieces in front of everybody. If this was before – before Iain, before Tom, before she made a rash decision and he became quite so distant – she would know what to do, how to react. How to save him.

Now, she can only watch as he flounders.

"Um, I'm his e…never mind," Sam replies distractedly. "Just don't tell him, Rash, yeah?"

"You got it boss!" Rash replies, doing a mock salute. "Not that, you know you're my boss, but yeah, boss I got this," he rambles on, but Sam's already turned away.

She needs a plan, and she needs one fast.

* * *

~x~

The only person she can tell is Iain, and the expression on his face is exactly what she pictured.

"Sam," he says in the matter-of-fact way which is so useful normally and exactly the opposite of what she wants to hear now. "It's a problem. But if he isn't going to accept your help, what can you do?"

"I don't know," she admits. "But I think he _will_ listen to me, Iain. I've got to at least try. You just…you need to not tell anyone, at least until I've spoken to him, okay?"

She can see the cogs whirring in his brain. He saw Nick Jordan back in the day, and he's seen the effects of alcoholism on Rita Freeman, or so Sam's heard. The dangers of having an alcoholic in charge of the Emergency Department, even temporarily, are monumental. But the dangers of having Sam Nicholls as an enemy are probably even worse.

"I'll give you a day," Iain replies slowly. "Then we've got to report it. It's not that drinking's the problem, Sam, you know that…well, generally I mean, not for Dylan. But they need strong leadership at the minute, and if he can't give it…"

"I know," Sam agrees with a heavy heart. "I'll do my best. And if not, I'll tell Charlie and Hanssen myself."

* * *

~x~

Somehow, she gets through the rest of her shift without thinking about Dylan Keogh, but that's something to do with the sheer number of patients. By the last, she's on the verge of falling asleep, but she pushes through, ordering a disgustingly strong coffee on her way back into the E.D.

She expects to see him in Connie's office but, although the door's open, he isn't there. Strange. It's a nice office, probably more orderly if Connie was around, but a nice one. One that she could have had, if life had turned out like she'd planned.

Closing the door gently, Sam wanders across to the desk, her hand running over the stack of paperwork in front of her. The way that things are done around here hasn't changed, and she's sure that even Dylan wouldn't mind if she gave him a hand with the paperwork. Just a hand, mind. She isn't doing anything that a registrar would do, just an administrative assistant.

For almost forty-five minutes she sits and types and rewrites and organises, leaving each file open, waiting for Dylan's signature. Her eyes flick over the office while she works, and a sneaky peek in the top drawer of Connie's desk reveals far more personal effects than she had ever expected the ice-cold Clinical Lead to have. Pictures that, once again, _she_ could have had if life had taken the path it should have taken.

And then, finally, the door opens, and an exhausted looking Dylan Keogh enters.

He doesn't notice her at first, simply closing the door behind him and closing his eyes.

Clearing her voice to make him aware of her presence, Sam stands up slowly, her eyes trained on Dylan.

"Oh," he says, his voice familiarly flat. "It's you. What do you want?" He sounds indifferent, but it's an effort, and she can hear that.

She just can't tell if it's an effort because he wants to be nicer, or just because he doesn't want her here. Probably both, knowing her ex-husband.

"How are you doing?" She starts gently, deciding to open the conversation with a topic other than his alcoholism. She doesn't need him getting defensive. "Must be strange, Connie not being here. No dictator to keep everyone in line."

"It's fine," he says, as monotone as before. "She's not a dictator. You know that. Not that that's relevant to why you're in my- _this_ office."

Sam fixes him with a stare. "Stop deflecting," she says firmly. "I saw Rash earlier. Told me that you were the life and soul of the party."

His face falls, his shoulders slump, and, surprisingly, all of the fight goes out of him. Strange. She had expected far more of a fight than that.

"Party of orange juice," Dylan says bitterly, but the exhaustion has affected even this.

He takes a seat on the sofa to the side of the office, and buries his head in his hands.

Momentarily, Sam's nonplussed. She had prepared a mental argument of rebuttals and counters to his inaccurate claims of 'being fine'. She found his browser history and his search for AA meetings. She had an entire list of evidence prepared, ready to beat him into accepting his problem if she had to.

But she doesn't need to.

"Dylan," she says gently, far more gently than any time for the last seven years at least. To his face, anyway. "We both know that that isn't true."

He doesn't reply, and she presses on. "How long?"

A mumble comes out from beneath the arms. "A month."

Relief almost spreads through her. At least it hasn't been four. At least she isn't the reason for this.

"Do you want to stop?" She asks the same question as she asked him all those years ago, in a similar situation. Except they were sat in the corner of their living room which he had started to destroy and she had finished in the middle of one of their most explosive arguments.

"Yes."

"Do you mean it?"

"Yes."

"Do…," she begins, before stopping. This is the hardest question to ask, and the question which will tell her the thing she needs to know for her own sanity. "Do you want my help to stop?"

There's a long pause.

Slowly, Dylan lifts his head from his hands, revealing bloodshot eyes filling with tears. Vulnerable, open, it's a side to Dylan Keogh rarely seen, even by Sam Nicholls.

"Yes."

* * *

This is my first attempt at a Sam/Dylan, so please let me know what you think!


End file.
